


Double Vision

by Tametomo



Series: Twins! [1]
Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Danger, Exes, F/M, Fame, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Hiddleswift - Freeform, Hollywood, Jealousy, Jeopardy, Long Distance Relationship, Oral Sex, Sex, Siblings, Twins, all the feels, awards show, hostages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tametomo/pseuds/Tametomo
Summary: A shy writer thinks she has learned to handle the complications of being the girlfriend of a famous actor, until their relationship is threatened in more ways than one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a month or so ago, and then with some of the things in the news over the last couple of months, I agonised over whether to post it. Why might become clear as you read it. But I'm happy with what I wrote so I decided to go for it. I hope it's not triggering, but it gets kind of dark along the way. I haven't used archive warnings because I don't want to spoil the plot! Hope you enjoy it.

_Sometimes I have to pinch myself._

_It's 3am and I can't sleep. Tom has a full day of press tomorrow, so I'm hunched up at the desk in his office next door, writing this. The floor is cold so I'm crouched up on the chair like I used to do as a kid, my knees and feet curled underneath me on the chair, but my legs keep cramping up in the chilly air. I'd rather be huddled up in bed with my toes tucked under his knees, where I can stretch my hands into his cropped curls and trace imaginary lines on his shoulders with the tips of my fingers until I get tired enough to sleep. But he has to be up at 5am, so that probably won't go down too well._

_Those curls, and those shoulders, and those ridiculously long legs, and the rest of him... all mine. There are six billion people in the world, more beautiful, less beautiful, more or less good or interesting, but none of them quite like him. Like I said; I can't believe my luck._

_Going out with a film star is all and none of the things you'd expect. For a start, it's not like going out with a film star, so to speak. It's more like being in a regular long distance relationship, even when he's here. We get handfuls of days where we get to hibernate. He makes vast fry-up breakfasts, and we lie in bed reading the papers, balancing the broadsheets on each other's heads just to annoy each other, or snoring on the sofa in front of Netflix. In those moments, the idea that in Tom's day job he's famous in lots of countries seems daft and too funny for words. People - total strangers - scream at him when he goes to work. It's surreal. He's just... him. His stubble tickles in the morning, and he has slightly corny taste in music, and his socks, which he leaves lying on the floor or the end of the bed, pong like anyone else's. And then there are days when we go to sleep in the same bed in different timezones, and he's off with the lark, a car waiting for him at 5.15am, and he'll slope in with a tired smile at 9pm. That's when he's not filming. When he's away I write him letters, and he Skypes me. It works, despite the obvious difficulties. I'm just astonished that it happened at all._

_My name is Carrie Stark. I write novels and rent a flat in Tower Hamlets. I hate the limelight; writing is a pretty effective way to take part in the world and, I guess, show off a little, without ever having to actually face it. Except for a lucky bolt of success, my path and Tom's would never have crossed._

_The world is more joined up than it ever has been, and yet nothing has really changed. We live within invisible borders. People socialise and fall in love with friends of friends, people they work with. We go to the pub around the corner on Saturday night. We stay in our postcodes. We stay in our lanes. We don't really go up to strangers who interest us. Not unless you're obviously the sort to go up to strangers as a habit, and the rest of us avoid that sort of person. And there's a line. Below it: most people. Ordinary life. Above it: the people who must be protected from everyone else. The velvet rope. The people on the sparkly side of it function in roughly the same way, but they have Staff. Teams. The same species, divided invisibly and separated firmly, never to find out that they are actually the same. And the rope remains in place, and never shall the two tribes mingle._

_But someone liked one of my stories, and wanted to make a film. They wanted me to write it, and then people on my side of the rope flocked in millions on a Friday night to see it. And so I found myself at a party, and now this man and I share a bed and Sunday newspapers, as if the rope had never existed at all. This man I was not meant to know. Dumb luck._

_I can never forget, though, that I ended up here by accident. I don't have the easy charm of these talented, stage-schooled creatures who live above the line with ease and certainty of their place in the world. For me, it's hard work. Anyone that tells you imposter syndrome isn't real is lying through their teeth, trust me._

_It's too cold to write more. I'm going back to bed, to disappear into his arms and feel his warm breath in my ear til I fall asleep. When I wake up, he'll already be gone._


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm panicking. My agent just called. My single biggest fear is now looming over me._

_They want me to present an award. On a stage, on TV, in front of thousands of people in the audience and millions more beyond the screen._

_I know it's going to represent about four minutes of my life, total, but in my head that's two hundred and forty individual seconds, each one a window of possibility in which something drastic could go wrong. I could fuck up my lines, or fall on my face, or announce the wrong name, or face the wrong camera, or accidentally say something career-incineratingly offensive, or be... God, STOP. Why do I do this to myself?_

_Is it awful that I'm considering asking Tom if he would do it for me? He loves public speaking, almost as much as I hate it. And he's far better known, he'd be a much bigger draw than me._

_He might insist I do it and tell me it's good for me. I hate it when he's right about these things._

_Good lord. What a coward._

 

 

"How is it there?"  
"It's good! Pretty gruelling, we're wading through swamp water and rainforest most days, but it's amazing. I wish you could see it." Tom sounded tired but satisfied, and Carrie could tell he was in his element.  
"I'm sorry I haven't skyped you for a few days. The schedule's been intense. We have to travel a lot between different locations so the days are particularly long."  
"Don't apologise. You just do your thing," she smiled, and he returned the smile, pixellated and thirty seconds late.  
"How's it going back home?" He cupped his chin with one hand, leaning into the screen slightly.  
"Quiet... Busy. I've been doing a lot of writing. Shifted the writer's block! The ideas are coming again, I can feel it taking shape. It's exciting." She grinned. He wanted to reach for her through the screen.   
"Have they given you any indication whether they want to turn it into a sequel?"  
"No, but fuck it. I want to write it anyway so I'll just crack on. If I have to go back and rewrite bits, so be it." Pixellated Tom nodded. The reception was particularly shitty today - Carrie guessed high speed wi-fi was something of a rarity in a Pacific jungle, even on a film set.  
"Something else has come up," she began. "My agent called a few days ago. I've been asked to present an award." Silence as the message transmitted. She wished she hadn't said anything.  
"That's terrific!" he enthused. It took a full minute for her doubtful expression to reach him, and for his to circle back to her. "Isn't it?"  
"Public speaking. On TV. Thousands of people. _Millions_."   
"Yes, but they'll walk you through it. You'll have an autocue."  
"All the gossip mags that lose their shit any time someone fluffs a word..."  
"Think how proud you'll feel after you ace it though. I know you can."  
"Tom..." She bit her lip. "They would so rather you did it. I know they would."  
"Carrie, this is an amazing opportunity. Think what it could do for your career."  
"Or yours?"  
"Mine doesn't need it. I mean -" Closing his eyes, he savaged himself inwardly as he realised his error, and her hurt expression only reached him after he reworded it.   
"I've done lots of these, so it's fun but there isn't really a good reason to do another right now. But it's an amazing milestone for you, and it could be really useful. And it'll be exciting! You have to do it! I'll come and cheer you on."  
She chewed at a nail, unconvinced.  
"Will you think about it?"  
"Alright. I will. Though if I'm filming..."  
"It's after you wrap. I'll make it worth your while... Promise."  
"That sounds more persuasive..." He smiled. "I'd better go... up at 4am." He touched his fingers to a kiss and imprinted the screen. "Night, sweetheart."  
"Love you."


	3. Chapter 3

_It's tonight. Thank God Tom said yes. I know I'm an idiot, I should have jumped at this chance but the thought of fucking it up in front of all those people... and that forever being what people associate me with, over and above anything I might ever write... even now I've dodged that bullet I feel sick thinking about it. Maybe if it was my own industry I'd feel different; literary events are quite low key. But it makes sense for him to do it. I'll still go to the awards, anyway. It will just be fun, and not work. Plus it means we get to be in the same place for a couple of days._

_I'd better go. There's some sort of glam squad arriving in five minutes to terrorise me and make me look like the sort of person that regularly goes to awards shows. Fat chance! Jesus. I never get used to this stuff._

 

_\---_

 

_Well, that was weird._

_The awards were what you'd expect; lots of photographers, cameras, bottles of Dom Perignon everywhere, young women in ludicrous couture dresses, older women in serious navy and black evening dresses, all the men in tuxedoes. The glamazons made me bring two dresses; one for the awards, one for afterwards. I really don't see why it was necessary but they insisted. The first one is a midnight blue Armani thing with a low back and skinny straps made from PVC-coated copper wire, and the other one is bloody ridiculous but they're convinced it'll be "a fashion moment." I'm not really in the market for a fashion moment, but at this point, to be honest, I'm just doing as I'm told. It's funny how, whatever the event, however high or low profile, the dinner tables at these things are always exactly the same, a bit overstuffed and uncomfortable and loaded up with wine and oversized floral arrangements._

_Tom was up second to last, and of course he was a natural, as usual. Only... it was really odd and uncomfortable. It felt like a complete setup. I don't know whether it would have been the same or different if Tom hadn't replaced me. Stephen Fry was hosting the whole thing, and he introduced Tom onto the stage to present the award. And then his co-host... Taylor. I don't know if he knew in advance. I suppose he must have done, they don't just spring that sort of thing on people if they ever want to work with them again. I'll ask him later. He looked slightly awkward as she came onstage but it might only have been me that noticed; he was in professional composure mode. He hasn't actually been around her at all since they broke up, so you can imagine the woolly mammoth in the room._

_So she walked up to the podium, looked at him, leaned into the microphone and said, in this really rehearsed way, "Imagine seeing you here." Looking around the audience for a reaction. Jesus. And he just did his polite camera laugh and got his envelope ready, and she said - and I genuinely can't work out if it was for the audience's benefit or not, because she turned her head away, but she's a pro, she must have known the mics would pick it up - "You're not meant to be here. What happened to Tom Hardy?" Her voice radiated disdain. He looked mortified. God, I really felt wretched for him._

_He shut it down very quickly; he laughed again and said, "Now then, play nice," and got straight into announcing the nominees. But everyone must have seen that look. What were they playing at?? Why would they put him and her onstage together like that, if not to get a cheap headline? I can just picture tomorrow's papers. "Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston's Awkward Reunion", or something worse, given her implication that he'd engineered it. Why did she have to be like that? And was it originally meant to be me and her? That would have been excruciating._

_Anyway, they disappeared offstage together afterwards for a photocall, so I hung out at the table through the final award and afterwards when they stopped filming. I was talking to a semi-retired record producer from our table, someone who'd worked with everyone for the last forty years - he was actually really delightful. After about twenty minutes Tom reappeared, and five minutes later Taylor walked over too, and introduced herself to me. Up close she's unbelievably tall, very poised. Certainly very beautiful. She had this gold column dress on. I felt like a ragdoll next to her. Apparently she'd heard lots about me. She went to town on the compliments; my hair, my dress, the works. Apparently I'm "adorable"._

_She was very sweet but slightly condescending - in that unspoken "you can have him now I'm done with him" kind of way. She kept dropping little details about him as though they'd be news to me. I don't know what he told her, whether she knows we've actually been together for seven months now. Anyway, she didn't stick around long, but urged us to come to the party afterwards, and we said we would. After she left, Tom sidled up to me and slunk both of his arms around my waist. We've had a few drinks so far tonight, and he's in a very flirty mood suddenly. I thought we might just sneak off to the apartment, but typical him, he wants to go to the party... He's just gone to talk to a director he knows, and I'm the last one left at the table (at times like this my iPad stops me from looking completely awkward - I think people just assume I'm plotting some detail for the next book) so when he gets back we'll go and get changed. On to dress number two..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next three chapters... enjoy!

Tom strode cheerfully through the concrete corridors of the arena, Carrie's hand in his. He occasionally glanced at her, his mouth twitching in mischief. They reached the door of his dressing room and, after a quick glance around, he swung her round, backing her into the door, which gave way behind them. He steered her into the room, nipping hungrily at her throat, and turned her again to push her against the inside of the door. His hand reached past her hips and he flicked the lock on the door, raising his brows suggestively.  
"Time to pay up, sweetheart," he quipped, his mouth warm over her ear.  
"Talk to my accountant. I have a 30 day remittance policy, you know," she retorted.  
"Didn't you read the terms and conditions? Payment immediately on completion of services rendered." Tom's hand splayed across her cheek and pushed her head back slightly, and a slow, dangerous smile darkened the handsome face that looked down at her. She smiled lazily, looking up at him.  
"Alright, you hideous bully. What do you want?"  
He pinned her gaze with his, raised his left hand in mid air, then turned it over slowly and, with one deliberate finger, pointed downward. The edges of his mouth curled in a rakish smile. She met the challenge in his eyes.  
"Ask me nicely," she suggested, trying to suppress her smile. "You'll find the word 'please' goes down well. So to speak."

Tom's mouth twitched, and he inclined his head, conceding the point. He leaned down, running a hand over her waist, and his mouth grazed her earlobe. She felt his warm breath as he opened his mouth to speak in her ear, and his voice came rich and low. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, grinning.  
".... _Kneel_." His voice was a drawn-out whisper, a growl beneath his breath. Carrie convulsed with laughter, and she pushed him away.  
"You're such a prick," she laughed, shaking her head.  
"Can't blame me for trying..." he admitted, reddening.  
"You've got it made, haven't you," she said, wiping her eyes. "The only man in the world with an official catchphrase he can use to ask girls for blowjobs."  
Tom covered his face with a mortified hand, and sank onto the sofa, his head bowed in embarrassment. "Jesus. I've become that guy." He buried his head in his knees, then smiled up at her again sheepishly. Her laughter subsided, and they each squirmed below the awkward tension that permeated the room.  
"There goes that mood, then," he admitted.  
She reached down, grabbed his wrist and tugged him to his feet.  
"Come here, dickhead," she whispered, smiling. She reached up and tugged his tuxedo jacket roughly down over his shoulders, and pulled at his tie, loosening it around his neck. He shrugged off the narrow-fitting jacket and pushed his fingers into her hair, kissing her hungrily. She took his chin in one hand, appraised him with a crafty look, and pushed him a step away from her.

Her fingers went to the button at his waist, and she held his gaze as she unzipped him. She leaned into the side of his throat and said under her breath, "You get points for trying."  
She dropped to a crouch, looking up at him, as she tugged the waistband of his boxers down a little way, freeing his cock. She kissed the end and started to spiral tiny kisses and tongue-flicks along its length. He groaned and his hands tightened around clutches of her hair. She flickered her initials on the head of his penis with the tip of her tongue, and took him fully into her mouth. The rush of close warmth around his manhood took him by surprise and he gasped, his knees buckling slightly. How did she do that? She knew exactly the routes to trace on him, exactly where and how to apply pressure. She sucked little kisses along one side of his cock, her fingers forming an O around the base, squeezing gently as she wrapped her mouth around him again and pressed gently with her lips, taking him deeper as he thrust into her. Inside the warmth of her mouth, her tongue explored him. Tom whimpered, and bent double over her, wrapping his arms around her from above.

She slid both hands onto his hips, and pushed him back to the sofa, shoving him down into the seat. Bracing her hands on his knees to support her weight, she drew herself up, and climbed onto his lap, teasing his mouth with hers, feeding him the taste of himself on her tongue. He hitched up her gown roughly and steered her onto him, and she shuddered as her body gave way and opened to him. Her breath caught in her throat as he drove into her, and she clawed at his face, his neck, his hair, the hard curve of his shoulders. From this angle, his pelvis was hard against hers, her small weight and his determined hands pulling her down around him as deep as he could go. At this angle it hurt, but it was a good hurt, the kind she wanted to hold onto; the thought of stopping made her ache horribly.

He pushed harder and harder into her, one hand gripping her throat and tipping her head back, the other on the small of her back to keep her right up close to him. He buried his face in her breasts, his teeth bruising her nipples slightly. She ripped open the top few buttons of his white shirt and covered his skin with frantic kisses.  
"Carrie..." His voice was an agonised whisper, and it sent a fierce ache through her abdomen. She felt her whole body tensing up, washed over with colour and that familiar, overwhelming sensory flood that left her utterly powerless, and she cried out involuntarily as it swelled and pitched her into blindness for an instant. As she exhaled and sank her face onto his shoulder in relief and dizziness, his body hardened against her and he shuddered and released a choked gasp as he came. They collapsed against each other, their breath coming hard and jagged as it slowed.

 

\---

 

A minute passed, or perhaps an hour. Carrie didn't know. She rolled carefully off him, the sweat on her neck cold against the back of the dressing room sofa. Tom lay back beside her, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling heavily. Tipping her face towards his, she sighed and smiled, "Better get dressed." She ran a finger along the hard line of his jaw and got to her feet. He stretched his arms out along the top of the sofa and watched her, his head tipped lazily to one side, as she negotiated the puzzle that was her second dress. As she untangled the sequinned fabric from itself and unhooked sharp sequins from the lace of her underwear, she began to regret the self-consciousness that had prompted her to decline the stylists' help with dressing. Who knew a party frock might necessitate an engineering degree?

A terrifying, floorlength McQueen creation, it crinkled and rustled with thousands of miniscule metallic sequins and paillettes in fiery vermillion. The colours of the sequins varied ever so slightly, giving it the illusory appearance of a moving flame. Outlined in slightly larger silver sequins were several large, irregular stars that slunk across a hip, a knee, the small of her back. The fabric, miraculously cut, was not tight but glued itself to every corner and curve, the weight of the microscopic sequins clinging to her outline, and fanning out below her hips into a slinky, generous skirt that swung as she walked. She looked like a tiny, all-time rock star, and she had no idea. Tom stared, mesmerised as she concentrated on untwisting one of the thin straps on her shoulder. She shone, a radiant, astonishing little imp with that messy, pixieish mop of wavy dark hair grazing her jawline, undoing any formality the dress might have had. He was without words. She caught the intent look on his face and smiled, embarrassed.

"I look like a lunatic, don't I? They'll laugh their heads off. Fuck this. I'm going back to the navy one -" He was up on his feet, his mouth hard on hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. He wound her hair round his fingers.  
"Don't you dare." He half muttered it, half growled. "You look.... " He exhaled heavily. "Jesus, Carrie." She felt him swell against her again. That, and his dishevelled shirt, the wild look in his eyes... It was more than she could take. She yanked open the remaining buttons of his shirt and forced it roughly down his arms, discarding it on the floor behind him.  
"...do this carefully," he murmured into her mouth as he slipped the glittering, priceless straps expertly off her shoulders - and something rapped sharply against the door.  
"Mr Hiddleston? Ms Stark?"  
They froze, and slumped against each other's shoulders. Tom steadied his breathing before answering.  
"...Yep?"  
"Your car's here, Mr Hiddleston. When should I tell the driver you'll be ready?"  
He bit his lip, and gave Carrie a long look. Ruefully, he replied.  
"Can you ask him to give us ten minutes? Thank you."

He ran both hands over her unruly hair, smoothing it, and gently pulled the straps back up onto her pale shoulders. His mouth twisted mischievously but he backed away from her, reaching for a hanger with another dark, formal suit on it. The air in the room still sparked with tension as she watched him drop his trousers and change into the other suit. Carrie wondered if it would always be like this, this animal need that often overran them without warning. As she tidied up her make up, her eyes slid past her mirror and lingered on the sparse dusting of hair in the centre of his chest as he buttoned the white shirt, glancing hungrily at her from below his brows.

Carrie wiped a stray little smudge of lipstick from Tom's neck, and squeezed his hand. Ten minutes later they were in the back of a speeding limousine, holding hands tightly behind the blacked out windows as Hollywood tore past them in neon light trails. When they curled around to face each other again and her hand, pale in the lamplight, found its way to his crotch, the driver pretended not to see, fixing his eyes on the blurred, flashing asphalt and the horizon.


	5. Chapter 5

_BLOODY HELL._

_There's dark horses... and then there's Tom._

_He has a twin brother._

_A. Twin. Brother._

_He exists in stereo. I'm not even kidding._

_We're at the Vanity Fair party. He's being interviewed so I've got 15 minutes to kill - I'm hiding in the bathroom with my iPad because it's less painful than trying to make small talk with people who don't know I'm alive._

_We got there, and he had this surreptitious look on his face. I knew he was up to something. We did the red carpet entrance - mortifying - he knows how to stand and smile and acknowledge everyone, I focused my energy on not ripping a £10,000 McQueen dress with the stilettos I can barely walk in. I have new levels of empathy for Jennifer Lawrence. We got inside, and the place was jawdropping - like being inside a Fabergé egg. Disney-style turrets and towers everywhere - everything just glittered. You could feed an entire developing nation for a month on what it must have cost to put together._

_This whole place is stuffed with stars - everywhere you turn, there's someone you're used to seeing in Vogue or on a cinema screen, and they all glide about purposefully like they know everything and everyone worth knowing. I suppose, in this world at least, they do. I'm hopeless. A couple of actors on the set for my own story for a few weeks is one thing, but this is insane. I'm out of my depth._

_Meanwhile, I seem to have been adopted by Kristen Stewart...!? Tom got roped into conversation with Taylor again, who of course was laughing at the most hysterical joke ever delivered in the long and patterned history of comedy. I know he's funny, but he's not that funny. No-one is that funny. Jesus. She didn't think he was funny when she humiliated him earlier. He seemed to have forgotten about that public slight too. I remember irritation pulsing through me as they played catch-up, and Kristen and I were stood near each other awkwardly on the sidelines, watching the painful spectacle._

_She is unbelievably pretty in real life. She has all that enfant terrible attitude you'd expect, but she's more delicate looking than she looks onscreen. She was stood alone, looking bored and unimpressed, and I was about as likely to try and start a conversation with her as to pirouhette naked across the floor in front of the mad and bad of Hollywood. But as the Taylor Show played out in front of us, Kristen seemed to sense it involved me somehow, and glanced at me with sympathetic, wry humour._

_I told her that her dress was exceptional - it was this phenomenal, austere, high-necked Queen Malificent thing with a rollocking great split up one thigh, the drama heightened by great swipes of glossy black kohl that masked her eyes. She returned the compliment, and because I have the social skills of a mollusc, I blurted out that mine was borrowed. Indoors thoughts, Carrie. She deployed one of those twitchy Kristen Stewart smiles you've seen on TV, and said, "Yep, mine too. No-one here actually buys their dresses. Everything's rented. Why do you think no-one ever wears the same outfit twice? They literally don't own any party dresses. Hollyweird."_

_Returning her attention to the floor show, she deadpanned, "She's an asshole, in case you were wondering." Childish, I admit, and perhaps unfair, but in that moment, God, it felt good to have an ally. I could get to like Kristen._

_And then, half an hour later, the most peculiar thing happened. I was talking to Tom, and across the room I saw... Tom. But with darker hair. Jesus. I knew he had sisters. He never said anything about a brother. He **definitely**  didn't say anything about a carbon copy._

_So Tom Vol. 2 breezes over to us, the same long legs and a sharp, lean black tuxedo, and Tom The First is beaming like a kid at Christmas, absolutely delighted with himself. Even without looking at me he's savouring the undisguised look of disbelief plastered across my face. Either they've put PCP in the drinks, or I'm going mad. His double reached us, and Tom grinned at me and introduced him. "Carrie - this is Lachie, my brother. He's in the business too - he's a theatre director."_  
_My social skills came out sparkling again, and the first thing I did was insult him - I said something like, "Fucking hell, you drew the short straw with that one... 'Lockie'??"_  
_Mercifully, he didn't take offence but laughed along._  
_"It's short for Lachlan. Trust me, 'Lachie' is an improvement."_

_Fuck. He's exactly like Tom. Same height, same smile and mismatched eyebrows... same voice, which is REALLY disconcerting. Same mannerisms. So flirty - he does that same 'glinting eye contact, tight amused mouth' thing that Tom does. Imagine them on the pull together.... Christ, they'd leave nations of women in rubble. Also, you can usually tell twins apart, slightly different features, a softer chin or the like. Nope. The one and only difference here is their hair - Lachie's is short-ish and ruffled, almost black, with a little length and natural curl in it, and Tom's is fairer, of course, but very clean-cut at the back and sides and quite groomed on top. Lachie is clean shaven too, while Tom has a bit of a five o'clock shadow at the moment. Lord, I'd be in real trouble if they were completely identical. I know you're not meant to fancy anyone other than your boyfriend, least of all his own brother, but when they look and sound exactly the same, hell..._

_God help me if he ever reads this. Time I put a passcode on this thing._

_And also, how the hell did he keep this quiet for so long? How did he keep it from me for seven months?! I've got to start paying more attention..._

_Anyway, Lachie's lovely, and seemed to take a shine to Kristen - he glinted at her and they were thick as thieves within minutes of being introduced._

_Shame, really; it would have been handy if Taylor had latched onto him instead of my boyfriend. But having already returned Lachie's interest, somehow I doubt Kristen would have any trouble telling her exactly how far to jump._

_Shit - I've been in here ages. I'll have to pick this up later. They'll think I've made a break for freedom via the bathroom window if I don't go back out there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't actually hate Taylor Swift. I'm a big fan actually (and I thought Hiddleswift was kind of sweet), but I enjoyed writing her villainously for this story - and the bitchy response from Carrie was huge fun to write.
> 
> No prizes for guessing where I got the name for Tom's surprise sibling, obviously :)


	6. Chapter 6

Carrie crossed the corridor, rearranging the tinkling folds of her skirt around her ankles. She stopped dead as she reached the ballroom. There they were again. Did the woman not have any other friends she could hang out with? So much for her squad.

Now the dj was playing DNCE, and... Christ, she was trying to get him to dance. He glanced apologetically over to Carrie, disentangled himself from Taylor and walked back to her.   
"Interviews all done?" She would not show him she was annoyed, she would not be That Girlfriend. A Tarantino line cycled through her mind as he nodded. _Everybody be cool. Are you cool? I am cool._ Carrie ran a hand down the flat of his belly, grinned, and pulled him onto the dancefloor. Kristen was nowhere in sight, and Lachie strolled up to Taylor with absolute self assurance, studiously missing the incredulous looks she exchanged with her friends and minders. By some sleight of hand or speech, he got her out onto the floor too.

Out there, Tom was all hers. Even in the damned dress, she felt confident enough to show off, and they played off each other's corny moves, him occasionally spinning her into him and out again. It was strange how conversation silenced her in the company of strangers but she could always dance. His mouth grazed her ear and she tipped her head back as she hung onto his neck.

 

\---

 

Then the song was over and Taylor - bloody omnipresent Taylor - loomed again.  
"Ok, you guys, I wanna see who has the best moves. Lachie, swap with Tom." She reached peremptorily for Tom's hand and, casting apologetic looks toward Carrie, he allowed himself to be led away.   
Lachie took Carrie's hand, and murmured in her ear, "...and breathe." She glared at him.   
"She's not going to give up, is she?"  
"Relax. Tom's not an idiot. He has to be nice to her. They're in a room full of people, she's not going to try anything."  
Carrie raised both eyebrows. Three meters away, Taylor hooted with laughter as her hands grazed the sides of her ex's waist. She was pulling him towards her. He looked embarrassed at first but played along, getting ever more into the spirit of the game. Carrie withdrew her hand sharply from Lachie's and returned to the side of the room, an angry lump growing painfully in her throat.

Lachie followed her. "She's only doing it because she can see he's happy with someone else. Seriously, don't let it get to you."  
"I look like an idiot, and he's having far too much fun to notice. He's oblivious, and she's loving it." Her voice strained and snapped with resentment and hurt. She felt miserable. This party had been a wretched idea, and now she couldn't leave without looking stroppy.

Lachie glanced at the couple on the floor, bumping into other guests and laughing each time, and muttered, "For fuck's sake."  
"Lachie - no -" Too late. Shit. Fuck, fuck, shit. He was striding over there. She couldn't watch, and turned away to intently study the champagne bucket at her side. Snippets of the exchange drifted painfully back to her.   
"...the fuck are.... can't you see...."  
"...exactly....your problem?"  
It was getting louder and more excruciating, and other guests were turning and peering with idle curiosity at the two mirror images arguing on the dancefloor. Justin Timberlake and Jon Stewart were staring at them. Meryl Streep was murmuring something to her companion behind her hand. Oh God. Oh God. Carrie stared hard at the floor, willing a chasm to appear. She pictured the floor splintering beneath her, a gaping void, a refuge from the mortifying scene.

"Perhaps if she tried talking to me instead of sending you over here to fight her battles -" Now they were actually shouting at each other.  
"She didn't send me - she's obviously too nice to say anything to you, and if you used your eyes you'd see she's upset but you're too busy playing Dirty Dancing with your ex..."  
Lachie was storming back towards her, with Tom following him mutinously, his fists clenched. God, he looked murderously angry. He seemed even taller than usual. As they reached her, Lachie squeezed her shoulder protectively as Tom faced her with eyes like ice.

"If you've got a problem, how about you come and talk to me about it, instead of sending my brother to humiliate me in front of -"  
"I didn't know he was going to say anything, he was already -"  
He cut her off dismissively.  
"What's your problem with Tay? She's done nothing to you. We haven't even spoken in eight months, and we're finally okay with each other, we're friends. Why are you being so precious about it?"  
Carrie saw red, and hit back.  
"If I was 'Tay', I probably wouldn't monopolise my ex - sorry, my FRIEND - and try it on all night in full view of his girlfriend." Sarcasm shrouded every word, and Carrie knew she was handling it badly, but his bullying tone had pushed her into a corner.  
"Well, you're not her, are you?" There was an awful silence after Tom delivered the stinging blow. His voice was clipped and ruthless, and his aim was flawless. She recoiled as if his words had physically slapped her, and a hideous silence divided them.

"Carrie - Jesus, that's not - you know I didn't mean it like that..." He reached a hand toward her hopelessly but she was off, making for the next room as fast as she could without letting them see her actually run. Lachie gave him a black stare and turned to follow her. Tom grabbed his arm. "If you fucking try it on with her -"  
"Prick!" Lachie shoved him hard with both hands, and followed Carrie out of the ballroom. Tom stared after them, his face dark with anger.


	7. Chapter 7

Lachie found Carrie in the next room, balled up in a corner - a dishevelled little bundle of sooty hair and orange sequins. Her elbows were wrapped around her head, her face tucked into her knees. Lachie ruffled her hair and sat down on the ledge beside her.  
"Come on... It'll be alright. It's half my fault anyway, I shouldn't have stirred the pot. Look, he'll simmer down in an hour or so, and he'll realise he's been a twat."  
"If she hasn't dragged him off to her lair by then," Carrie mumbled, sniffling. Lachie suppressed a smile at her melodramatic reading of the situation. She lifted her head. "He was vicious. He's never been like that with me before," she mused. "Never. He's usually wonderful. We don't even argue."  
"He's always been defensive about her. Their relationship..." He shook his head. "The press, everything that happened... It was no picnic. They really went for him. He's pretty jagged about the whole thing."   
Carrie looked up at him. He raised a finger and gently wiped black tears from under her eyes.  
"Don't cry. Come on. He'll come looking for you and you'll be in the bathroom redoing your entire face, and you'll miss your happily ever after moment."  
She choked out something that was half sob, half chuckle, and met his eyes. The same steely blue as Tom's.  
"You look **exactly**  like him."  
"I've heard that before," he said drily.  
"It's unnerving, but...not. Talking to you... it's like looking at him and having the conversation I want to have with him, instead of the one we just had."  
"Except I'm not him, Carrie. I'm me." His voice was a little terse, but he cupped her cheek with one hand, thumbing away a damp patch below her eye.  
"I know you are."

She looked down, and then met his gaze. Something stilled them, and they remained locked there, examining each other's faces solemnly. He searched in her eyes, and finding something like permission, leaned towards her. She leaned in too, until there was less than an inch between them. He stroked his other hand along her cheek, exhaled hard, and closing his eyes, lifted his chin and kissed her forehead instead. He shook his head at her slowly and she nodded in glum agreement, withdrawing slightly. Burying his hand in her hair, he drew her to him once more, kissed the top of her head and stood up, offering her his hand. She looked him at him, and shook her head. "I'm going to stay here for a bit."  
"Ok. I'll be back in a minute."  
"Wait - where are - what are you doing?" She panicked, picturing another scene.  
"Don't worry. Back in a mo."

Tom and Taylor were deep in conversation. He was animated, venting his irritation with exasperated gestures, and Lachie could guess what his brother was saying about him. She was listening and nodding, letting him vent. Lachie walked over to them, slower this time, and tapped his twin on the shoulder.  
"Quiet word?" he murmured in his ear. Tom grimaced at Taylor and followed him.  
Lachie tried to keep his voice neutral. "Look... I'm sorry I went off at you before. I know it wasn't helpful. But think how it looks to her. This isn't really her scene, is it?"  
Tom shook his head reluctantly.  
"I'm guessing she was already pretty nervous," Lachie probed.  
Tom didn't answer.  
"So you get her here, and then hang out with your world-famous ex all night. I know -" he put a hand on Tom's shoulder as his brother opened his mouth to protest - "...I know you're not trying it on, but trust me... Taylor is."  
Annoyance flashed across his twin's handsome, golden face.  
"Look. She's just through there, and you can fix this really easily, or you can let it ruin everything. Come on, man," Lachie cajoled him. Dropping his shoulders in defeat, Tom looked at him and nodded slowly, his mouth set in a tense line. He took a breath and headed out of the ballroom alone. Taylor looked at Lachie, questioning him with her eyes. Lachie raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Tom found Carrie peering into her pocket mirror, nudging away the last of the smudges from under her eyes. He sat down next to her, and rocked slightly, nudging the side of her shoulder with his. They regarded each other suspiciously.  
"I could have been kinder, couldn't I? I'm sorry." He craned his head to seek out her downturned face and ran a hand through her hair.  
"I wasn't trying to start a scene -"  
"Heh. Lachie did that all by himself, I think," chuckled Tom ruefully. "Look, I really am sorry. I didn't want tonight to be like this. And it wasn't your fault at all. It was mine." He kissed her hair, and tipped her chin up to find her mouth.  
She smiled uncertainly.  
"Are you and Lachie okay? It looked like you were about to swing for each other."  
Tom avoided her eyes. "We're fine."  
"You were so angry..."  
He didn't answer immediately, studying the floor.  
"He and I... we just..." He pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly, letting the abortive words wither. She said nothing, waiting, and finally he answered her silent question.  
"We've had some issues in the past. Lachie..." He swallowed uncomfortably. "Lachie and my girlfriends; not always a good mix."  
So that was it. Trust, she thought. In the end, everything comes back to trust.  
Carrie touched his hand, and said gently, "He was trying to help. That's all."  
"Yeah." His face was inscrutable. Moving imperceptibly, his eyes telling her little except that there was, beneath it all, something to tell. Was that bitterness she saw? Not anger; the lightning fury that had terrified her earlier was long gone. Weariness, she thought. Hurt. And stinging insecurity, scored deep below the breezy exterior he showed the rest of the world.

As she held Tom's hand, her mind pieced together the history. An earnest, competitive young man, a relentless work ethic, a neurotic determination to be the best. All those books, all those languages, that desperate need to be liked, to be listened to, to succeed at everything. The movie star, the performer, the showoff, the didactic interviewee. And then, somehow diminishing all of it, without malice but no less devastatingly, his twin brother. Identical, but not. Effortless, devil-may-care, self-assured, cheeky... and apparently able to relieve him of any woman at all if he wanted to. Film star he might be. Lachie he was not. Had Lachie also subjected himself to such internal agonies? She suspected not. Carrie suddenly felt very glad she was an only child.

She squeezed his hand and met his eyes as he raised his head.  
"Maybe we should go home. Chalk it up to bad luck."  
"Mm-mn," he shook his head. "Come back out there with me." He shook off his pensive mood and pulled her reluctant hands towards him, ignoring her protests. "I don't want tonight to just end up a bad memory. There's a few hours left and we're going to dance. I'll put a smile on your face if it kills me." She covered her mouth with her fist to hide the grin spreading below it, and he yanked her to her feet.  
"What about Taylor - what if she wants to hang out more?"  
"Bollocks to her," said Tom decisively, enveloping her in a hug.

 

\---

 

_It was all suddenly going so right, everything was repaired... and now nothing will ever be the same again. I wish we'd never gone to that hideous party. I wish we'd just gone home to bed with each other, I wish I could reverse the last 24 hours. I want to die. It should be me, not them._

_I'll try and untangle it. I'm stuck here in this corridor, they won't tell me anything... it could be hours._


	8. Chapter 8

_We were dancing. Finally, he froze her out and focused on me. We spun around the floor like fireworks and the whole room was a gorgeous, dark lit-up blur; we were alone, together, as if in the heart of a centrifuge. I remember his hand cupping the back of my neck under my hair. I remember him laughing softly in my ear - at what, I forget. I remember thinking that he was all I would ever want, perhaps for the rest of my life._

_And then, from the next room, we heard something that sounded like a whipcrack, and another one. I remember Tom pulling me sharply into him and looking around wildly. Then there was screaming, and it was suddenly clear that they were gunshots. Taylor's gang of minders hustled her out the rear exit of the ballroom and others followed her, skidding into each other in panic. People ran through the room past us. One woman tripped on her gown and went flying, and no-one helped her up._

_There was a sort of Disney castle style set piece in the corner of the ballroom, about ten feet high, and Tom yanked me over to it. He was searching the outside of it clumsily with his hands in the semi-darkness; he found a hatch at the back, and we tumbled inside. Lachie and Kristen - where were they? We peered through the layered mesh walls and saw them across the room - they had had the same idea as us. Kristen was up on the windowsill, making herself as small as she could, and Lachie curled the wooden window shutter around her and pulled a floorlength drape in front of it, and then he hid under a trestle table. There were tablecloths over it which concealed most of him but it wasn't much of a hiding place._

_And then they came in and took over. Two gunmen, only they were wearing the uniform of the party security. They had been walking around among us **all night**. They were dragging a dark haired actress I sort of recognised, and they threw her to the floor. And they shot her, they just killed her right there. I thought I would throw up. I don't know what sound I made but Tom clamped his hand hard over my mouth; I remember his face was right up against mine, his eyes an inch from mine, a finger over his lips. I remember he held me tightly while everything played out in slow motion. They brought people in, they killed them. It was - they were - merciless. It didn't feel real. It couldn't be. They had a list. The guestlist, I guess. They sent the staff, and people who they didn't think were important, somewhere else, where there were no gunshots. Maybe they even let them go. I don't know. They were only interested in the famous names. I remember it felt like time was standing still. I could hear police shouting outside but they never came in._

_I have to write this down, I have to remember everything, even them killing people, even the very worst thing that happened that night. Because if this is the last memory I have of him, the last proof that he existed, was real and tangible, that he was, and we were, then I cannot let any of it slip through my fingers, or I'll have nothing left._


	9. Chapter 9

_They were running around the building shouting; yelling out names of people they had caught. If I write any of them down here I think I'll be sick. They were people everyone has heard of. Some of them were people Tom knew personally, and I saw his face darken in anguish when he heard the gunshots._

_The police kept shouting too, demanding they come out without their weapons, but I guess the hostages meant they couldn't storm the place._

_Sometimes the gunmen yelled out the names of people who weren't there, and instead moved onto the next on their list. Some of them were Tom's friends too. The gunmen's voices betrayed their anger every time they reached an absent name, and when he heard that his friends Chris and Jessica had, mercifully, never showed up to the party, he crouched absolutely motionless, still holding me, but I felt his tears soak through my hair._

_And then he let go._

_The castle prop was like a little purple and red cave, the walls made of a mesh like fine chickenwire, and you could get right inside it, like a big snail shell. Tom made me get right into the middle, as far as I could go, so there were two walls of mesh between me and the horror in the middle of the ballroom. Then he kissed me hard - I can still feel the pads of his fingers hard on my jaw and the back of my neck, can still feel the sore little patch on my lower lip where his teeth grazed me slightly. It was the most devastating kiss I have ever had. And then he backed away and left me there._

_I tried to pull him back but he wouldn't come back in. He positioned himself close to the hatch, around the corner from me, peering intently out at the carnage. I crawled towards him and he pushed me back inside, brought his face to mine, and mouthed, "STAY. Please. PLEASE." His eyes were desperate. He wouldn't explain, but now I know what it was. He was thinking that when they came for us, they'd only find him, they'd think he was alone. Thinking about it now, my heart hurts, and my stomach plummets._

 

_\---_

 

_I know he was frantic about Lachie too. They seemed too preoccupied scouring the whole building for guests trying to get away to bother actually searching the ballroom. On the floor of the little castle, our eyes level with the gunmen's knees, we could see the mirror shine of Lachie's shoes below the hem of the tablecloth. I prayed that they couldn't._

_They never explained why. What these glittering people had ever done to them. I know people resent celebrities, the rich and famous, the lucky and privileged. It's funny to watch the gilded and mighty tumble from their perches, to watch them trip on their shoes, fall out of their dresses or get covered in slime on live TV. But killing... they're people, they have children and parents, they have people to whom they mean everything, they're human, they know love and blind fear like anyone else. To shoot a person in the head, someone who's never done anything to you.... how could they? How?_

_The nurse keeps walking past, and never ever stops. No news. It's been hours. There's a man down the corridor who keeps shouting incoherently, something about his mother. I want Tom. I want him. I miss him. There's a hideous hole in my heart where he should be, and it's growing and growing. The TV is playing the news on a loop, silently, ambulances and stretchers and pictures of dead starlets and rockstars. I think I'll go mad._


	10. Chapter 10

_They were still prowling around with their hateful fucking list, and we were listening for our own names. Lachie and Kristen too. God, they were furious that Taylor had got away. I was glad. Earlier that night I had hated her, but I couldn't wish that on her. On anyone. And it felt like a small victory over these psychotic fucking bastards. I couldn't touch Tom, hidden around the corner on the other side of that metal netting, but I could see his profile through the mesh. He spread his hand on it, and I met it on the other side with mine. We couldn't see each other's eyes but we could feel each other's breath. And then it came._

_One of the gunmen came back into the room, and read out the names they hadn't yet found. Eight left, he announced. A rapper. A movie producer. (I still can't write the names of the others from that list. It seems obscene somehow.) "Kristen Stewart." A French fashion designer. "Tom Hiddleston." Oh God, no, no. No. A basketball player. Another actor. "Carrie Stark." To hear your name read out on a list like that... I can't describe it. It's not real. Like being in a play, waiting at stage left to play your role. Surreal even to think I was well-known enough for some murderous lunatic to want to kill me. But to hear the name of your lover, and of someone you've already begun to think of as a friend... and to look out at the twisted pile of inert bodies in the middle of the room... it's like a bereavement before it even happens._

_The one guarding the ballroom told the other one to do another sweep of the building and find them. And then the unspeakable happened. Something knocked against the table leg across the room, and a champagne glass toppled from the edge of the table and shattered. The screaming, momentary tinkle of glass - it was the loudest sound I have ever heard. The gunman was over there like a shot, and then he was dragging Lachie out from beneath the table. He had hold of the front of his jacket; Lachie was struggling and thrashing but the gunman was dressed and built every bit like a real security guard and hauled him into the middle of the floor. He forced him to his knees, and gripped the back of his neck._

_My heart was in my mouth, and I was terrified; terrified for Lachie, terrified of what Tom would do. The gunman demanded his name. Lachie hadn't been on their list, and evidently they didn't know his face. I prayed they'd let him go, some anonymous theatre director with a famous surname. I willed him to use a different name. I know Tom was thinking the same thing. But Lachie ruined it._

_"Tom Hiddleston." No. NO. Everything happened at once. The gunman wrenched Lachie's hair, jerking his head back. Lachie grimaced in anguish and squeezed his eyes shut, and in a heartbeat Tom was gone, he was out there and halfway across the floor in seconds. And from there everything is at once muddled and crystal clear. I know what happened, but not the order in which it happened. I can only try and write it down. Fuck. The patrolling nurse is watching me and I just realised I'm sobbing aloud. The words on the screen are blurred under bubbles of tears._

_Lachie claimed Tom's name, and Tom, across the floor, said, "He's not Tom. I am." The gunman was looking at both of them, from one to the other, and said, "Which one of you's him? And who's the other one?" And almost in unison, they both said, "Lachie Hiddleston." Part of me, the manic, out-of-body part that wasn't watching my boyfriend and his identical twin staring down the barrel of a gun, wanted to crack with laughter at the bizarre Spartacus scene playing out in front of me. The real part was frozen with cold, paralysing fear and premature grief._

_Somehow it played out for a few minutes. I thought the man would just kill them both, and then they'd be gone forever, but he seemed to really need to know which was which, and neither of them would give way. Lachie insisted he was Tom, and Tom insisted he was Tom, and Lachie insisted Tom was an ordinary guy with an ordinary job... and I realised the gunman really, actively didn't want to kill anyone who wasn't on his famous hitlist. But his patience ran out, and he cut them off. I remember his words exactly._

_"Enough! Last chance, or you both die. Which one of you's the actor?"_  
_And then Lachie shouted at the top of his voice, "We're the last two in here, fucking help us!" And turned to the gunman, and said, "I'm Tom."_


	11. Chapter 11

_I don't know how to write the next part. I don't want to make it real. There's a part of me still waiting to wake up._

_Maybe if I write it down I'll be able to handle it better._

_Or maybe I'll shatter, implode, and end up in some room being fed sedatives._

_The nurse keeps staring at me. I'm going to lose it in a minute. They do say it's always the quiet ones._

_I want Tom. I want him here, now, I want him to be okay, I want us to be in London, in bed with the papers, I want this never to have happened. I wish I had done the fucking award presentation, and fucked it up royally, and been an insufferable baby about it and made Tom take me home, where we - he - would have been safe._

_I want Lachie to be okay, or maybe even to never have met him, because everything was okay before that, it was only in that room that our world went up in flames._

_The scene keeps repeating in my head, looping like a fucking gif. The gunman raising his weapon to the side of Lachie's forehead, Tom scrambling towards the pair of them, Lachie's hands reaching out to push him back, the gun hard against Lachie's head, the deafening sound and the bursting little red explosion from the side of Lachie's temple, and his head jerking to the side horribly, Lachie falling, crumpling, and an appalling high pitched shriek from somewhere, and meanwhile Tom howling, something guttural like an animal, lurching towards his brother, and another gunshot and then... then... Tom twisting sharply and falling backwards, the sound of his head meeting the floor, his chest convulsing, his blue suit turning black, and the black pool underneath him... and still that shriek, and realising that it's me, it was me all along, and the gunman is staring right at me._

 

_\---_

 

_I need a drink. I shouldn't have gone over it, I thought I could write it and it would become matter of fact, not the horrible nightmare sequence going round in my head since I got here. But now it's amplified and screaming at me. I want to be blind drunk, incoherent like that man and his fucking mother, I want to forget everyone I've known, everyone I've loved. I don't want to feel anything._

_I need to get a grip on myself. I can't just sit here staring at the walls, I need to make the hours pass. I've written the most horrific part. Onward._

_I thought that was it. I couldn't move, and the man, the monster, was walking straight towards me. And then another sharp, loud crack from the entrance, and the man buckled, keeled to the ground, and policemen, real policemen, swarmed through the room. Too fucking LATE, you useless fucking bastards. My Tom, and dear, kind Lachie too, slumped in the middle of the floor. Too fucking late._


	12. Chapter 12

_I was crawling across the floor - I couldn't walk, I don't think my legs would have supported me. And then I was coiled around Tom, and he was alive. My Tom; he was breathing badly, awful ragged gasps, and his pale shirt was soaked to blackness. My hands went to his face, his hair, his neck, my lips were on his forehead and his eyelids and his mouth and his cheeks, and his face was wet - with my tears, I realised. He was trying to talk, his neck straining, struggling with the air and the pain. Just one word._  
_"L-achie..."_

_His hands, weakened, clutched at me, and he repeated his brother's name in a strangled whisper. I couldn't tell him. I just couldn't. So I lied to him. I sat with him and stroked his face and I told him the paramedics were with Lachie. He opened his eyes and locked mine with his. His pupils were dilated wide and dark. There was a plea in his eyes, and with the little strength he had left, he pushed me vaguely towards Lachie. I could sense the police hovering around us, but none of them tried to remove me. I think I would have screamed like a hellcat if they had._

_I was terrified of what I would see as I inched towards Lachie's body, but the bullet hadn't disfigured him at all. He was lying on his back, with his face to the side. If you could ignore the unspeakable little black circle on his temple, you might have thought he was sleeping. His hair looked absolutely black in the gloom, and his eyes were closed. His face, away from the wound, was still perfect. I remember trying to ignore the pool of blood under his head. I put my hand on his hair, smoothing it down, and kissed him very lightly on his forehead._

_I lifted his head slightly to see his whole face, leaning in in the darkness, and I felt it. A wisp of air, a tiny current of breath. I choked on my own breath and nearly collapsed._

_I could feel the pulse in his neck under my fingers. I have no idea how you get shot in the head and live, but at that point at least, he was alive. I wanted to clutch him, cover his face with kisses, but I just stroked his hair, clenched his fingers, and whispered in his ear, "Hold on, Lachie. Tom's here. Hold on."_

_And then I was kneeling beside Tom and telling him, without having to lie to him, that his brother was alive. I think I was crying. I reached for Lachie's hand, and joined it with Tom's. Neither of them could hold on but their fingers grazed each other. Tom didn't have the strength to smile but his eyelids flickered open and I know he understood. His breathing was slowing down. The paramedics pushed me away, surrounding him and Lachie, and manoeuvred them onto stretchers which they wheeled out into the night._

_A policeman held me up as I followed them, stumbling through the encampment of police and news crews that had staked their places outside. I squinted in the glare of the police floodlights, and as a helicopter roared up above me, I realised numbly that they had left me behind._


	13. Chapter 13

_And now I'm sat here. The cop who helped me thought I was shellshocked. I guess I was. The outside world didn't look real; a mess of media trucks and sirens and liveried cars, spotlights and crowds of people - police, journalists, rubberneckers, crying fans. Like something from a film. What vicious irony. The cop put me in a car with a blanket around me, and brought me here. They gave me the once-over, and now I'm in a windowless hospital corridor, and it's gone 5am and no-one will tell me anything. The nurse glances at me to make sure I'm not about to do anything drastic, and that's it. All I know is what happened when they took him from me._

_They said Tom's heart stopped on the helicopter. They said they revived him. They said he and Lachie are both in surgery. That they'll do their best. That's all they say. Not, "we think they'll make it," or "there's a 50/50 chance". They won't give me anything to hold onto. Just grim looks and torturous silence._

 

\---

 

**"We're coming to you now live from Sunset Boulevard, where police and medics are dealing with the aftermath of a shocking attack in which two gunmen burst into a Vanity Fair party following the MTV Movie and TV Awards earlier tonight. The gunmen opened fire on partygoers at the Beverley Hills Hotel shortly after midnight, before being shot dead by armed police who stormed the building.**

**The number of dead and injured is not currently known. A number of high profile guests, including Taylor Swift, Robert Downey Jr, Emma Watson and Susan Sarandon, have already updated their social media profiles to confirm they are safe. Fans have flooded Twitter and other social media channels asking for news of of their favourite stars. It's believed that the attackers specifically targeted celebrity guests, and allowed staff and less well-known individuals to leave the premises unharmed. As yet police have not disclosed any motives or whether the gunmen were known to them or part of any known group or organisation. We'll bring you more on this developing story as we get it. This is Kacey Stoneman, for KTLA."**


	14. Chapter 14

The nurse couldn't remember a shift like this. She knew all about gunshot victims, and parties gone wrong. Crying girlfriends in waiting rooms, police swarming. But this was different. A weird pall in the air. News crews everywhere. It was like being in a dreadful episode of one of those hospital TV dramas that bore so little relation to her day to day life.

The sad surrealism of seeing stretcher after stretcher wheeled in, populated by so many faces she knew, not as friends but as billboards, magazine covers, flickers on TV. And all of them gone. Hopeless. A massacre. What it must have been like at the scene... she couldn't imagine.

Then the twin brothers - the only patients that had come in alive so far... well, barely. They looked familiar though she couldn't place them. They had been in theatre for hours now, surgeons occasionally emerging through the swing doors looking grim then darting back in.

And the crying girl on the bench down the hall. A dark shaggy-haired little thing, incongruous in a floorlength sparkling orange gown, her bag open at her feet. Covered in stars. How horribly apt, given who her friends seemed to be. One moment she was sobbing, heaving awfully over her knees. The next, she was typing distractedly on an iPad. Then crying again. Weird and disturbing, like everything else tonight.

The nurse willed the shift to end. It was like some sort of bleak, nonsensical nightmare. She'd never complain about a drunktank Saturday night ever again.

 

\---

 

Carrie woke up with someone's hand on her shoulder. Her bones cracked painfully as she stretched her limbs. She had slept hunched badly on the wooden bench, and now everything ached. She blinked, disoriented, and then a black wave of horror swallowed her as she realised where she was. Why she was there. Tom. His brother. She fought a rush of nausea and terror.  
"It's okay, hon," a southern drawl intoned softly. She looked up. A nurse. Not the peering one who had patrolled, flatfooted, during the night, but a kindly looking woman in her fifties.

Did she dare to ask? She'd give anything not to hear the words that would mean the end of her world. She stared at the nurse, mute.  
"Are you waiting for news on the twins?" The nurse's face creased with concern, treading carefully with this creature who looked as though she might fall apart at any moment. Carrie nodded, a tiny, fearful movement.  
"Do you want to go in and see them? They're still critical, they haven't regained consciousness... but you can sit with them for a moment if you're quiet," ventured the nurse. In an instant Carrie was up, scrabbling for her bag.  
"Where???"  
The nurse led her down a corridor and into a lift.  
"Are they... will they be okay?"  
"We don't know yet, I'm afraid. The doctors induced a coma in one of them, the young man with the head injury, to give his brain the best chance at recovery. His brother -"   
"Tom," interrupted Carrie in a choked voice.   
"Right. He's in a coma as well, but it's not medically induced. It's likely a reaction to the trauma. They were both seriously injured, and they lost a lot of blood..." The nurse trailed off, seeing Carrie's stricken face. "But they're in the best place. We're doing everything we can for them. They were both lucky to survive at all. All we can do now is wait and hope."  
The lift clunked open and Carrie followed the nurse down a sunlit corridor. At the end they passed a row of glass partitions, obscured by vertical blinds. The nurse opened the door and ushered her in.


	15. Chapter 15

Kristen sat between the two beds across the room. Her eyes were smudged with last night's makeup, and she rested one hand on the bed to her right, folded around the hand of the dark-haired young man lying there. She raised her eyes and stood as Carrie lurched across the room towards them. The two women clutched each other, enfolding each other in a tight, fierce embrace.

Carrie looked down at the hand that Kristen had been holding, and her eyes scanned up to the face on the pillow. Lachie's eyes were closed, and a bandage bound his head tightly, wound around his temples and forehead. She shifted her gaze quickly to the other bed, and caught her breath. Tom. He too lay asleep. He looked peaceful despite the thin breathing tube at his nose, the large plastic oxygen mask that covered half his face. A machine blipped serenely at his side - keeping him alive, she thought dully. His chest was bare under the bedsheet, tucked neatly around him, and a large dressing and bandage bound part of his chest. She hovered uncertainly beside him, running her hand lightly along the side of his face. Behind her, Kristen offered a chair, and she sank into it.

For the most part, they sat there in silence, each keeping vigil by their chosen bedside. Their silence meant the nurses seemed content for them to stay. The hours passed - Carrie didn't know how many. She didn't think much about it, just kept watch over Tom's still face, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She stroked both sides of his hand, occasionally pressing kisses into it, or dropping them onto the side of his arm or the smooth plane of his forehead. Other than the machine-managed breathing, there was no sign of life.

 

\---

 

The hours passed in a slow agony. Nothing happened. Kristen sat holding Lachie's hand. Carrie held Tom's. From time to time, as her joints began to ache, she would switch hands. She did it ritually, superstitiously, one hand passing to the other without breaking contact with him, as though to let go would be to release him into the next world. She and Kristen did not speak. Occasionally they glanced at each other, and something was understood between them.

Carrie woke several times, realising she must have drifted off with her head on the thin mattress beside Tom's shoulder. She no longer knew what hour it was, what day. As the sky lightened again outside the window, an unfamiliar nurse bustled in. Checking the bedside machines, she began to adjust something on Lachie's machine, and disconnected a narrow tube from the complicated setup. Kristen leaned forward in a panic.  
"What are you doing??"  
"We're going to try bringing him out of the coma. There's more activity on the ECG; it should be safe now to try. We'll take him off the drugs keeping him under. He won't come round immediately but hopefully it shouldn't take too long."  
"What about Tom?" Carrie asked.

Lachie stirred once or twice, though he was a long way from wakefulness. The first time, Kristen stared at him intently, holding her breath. The second time, she pushed a dark, stray curl from his forehead. Carrie found she was envious of Kristen, of those little, cruel signs of hope. She stared at them furtively, bitterly hoping her face didn't betray her thoughts. What if it had been the other way around? What if Tom was - maybe, hopefully - on the the verge of waking? What if Kristen was left sitting there, facing the end of her world instead? If she had had the choice, would she have swapped their places? Carrie had to admit, despite the confusion of her attraction to Lachie, despite the mean, self-loathing feeling that curled around her like a noxious odour, that she would. Tom lay motionless, his eyes closed fast. The nurses apparently couldn't end a coma they hadn't induced. Waiting was all there was. No flicker to suggest he dreamed, or was even still in there at all. A statue, an effigy. A memory carved of flesh and blood.


	16. Chapter 16

_Night looms, presides and retreats. I've lost track of time. I know it's day but I don't know which day. The room seems smaller with every hour that has passed. Writing this is the only thing keeping me sane. One of the nurses has lent me a charger for the iPad. I know I'm just rambling now. I'm sleepless and probably delirious._

_Kristen is asleep, slumped over Lachie's bed. She hasn't said much. I suppose part of me thought it was weird that she was suddenly so attached to him, so stricken by what's happened to him. They knew each other for only a few hours. But he's the sole reason she's alive; he sacrificed what little safety he might have had to protect her. And there's something between them. I saw it. If he comes out of this, they'll make a scorching couple._

_Some people - her team, I suppose - showed up at one point, and she went outside to talk to them. She hugged one of them, and I think she was crying. They talked for a few minutes, and then she shook her head and they left. Her eyes were red but dry when she came back in._

_I think she's afraid to say anything to me. She must know there's nothing she or anyone could say that will help. She doesn't seem the type for platitudes or kindly clichés. I'm grateful for that._

_There's no change with Tom. I'm really scared now. More than I was before. Only now it's the dull, heavy, tedious kind of fear, the fear of being beyond hope. Him being gone is starting to feel normal. Isn't that awful? It seems like a lifetime ago that he was here with me. Don't they say that the longer the coma goes on, the less chance there is, or the more damage is done to the brain, or something? I don't know. I'm afraid to look it up. What if he does wake up but doesn't remember me or, worse? I'd take anything, though. Anything just to know he'll live, anything not to lose him completely. I can't b_


	17. Chapter 17

A barely audible moan came from the bed, and the iPad crashed noisily to the floor as Carrie jerked to her feet. Another, half moan, half murmur. He was... was he waking up? She grabbed Kristen roughly by the shoulder and shook her.  
"Kristen!"  
Kristen woke with a start and pushed the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand. The hand on the bed, previously motionless, arched slightly and the fingers curled inward. Carrie and Kristen leaned over the bed as his eyelids flickered and he silently tried to speak. His voice emerged as a papery whisper.  
"Tom..."

Kristen held Lachie's hand tightly.  
"Can you hear me?" His eyes opened slowly and gazed first at her, then Carrie. They seemed bluer than before, Carrie thought. He scanned the room; uncertain, confused. Kristen squeezed his hand.  
"You're in the hospital. Do you remember much? There was... you were hurt at the party. But you're safe, you're gonna be okay."  
Lachie's eyes searched the room, as far as they could. He tried to move his head but a disorienting whirl of pain stilled him, limiting his vision.  
"Don't try to move yet," Kristen soothed awkwardly. "You've got a head injury... take it slowly."  
"The bastard shot me..." he replied in a slow, blurred mutter, trying to make sense of the blotchy rush of memories that swam at the front of his mind. Carrie could almost see his mind working, piecing it together.

And then she saw the moment of realisation, the same as she had faced days earlier.  
"Tom - where's Tom?" His voice croaked with urgency. After days in silent limbo, his mouth was still getting used to words again, and he spoke uncertainly. "Is... he okay? Was he hurt?"  
He was alert enough not to miss the look that Kristen and Carrie exchanged. He looked from one to the other, his eyes urging an answer.  
"He was hurt too," Kristen admitted quietly. Carrie took over.  
"He tried to stop the gunman. He was shot in the chest -" she saw the blood drain from Lachie's already pale face. "He's here, he's right here," she hurried. "They're taking care of him." She moved to one side, slightly further down the bed, and gently ushered Kristen a little way in the same direction.

"Can you see?" She gestured to the other bed. Lachie glanced to his right, but lying on his back his field of vision extended no further than the ceiling and the faces of the two women who watched him anxiously. He tried again to move his head, closing his eyes to the wave of nausea - "No no no - don't," Kirsten protested, putting her hands to his face, but he managed to turn his head a little, breathing hard with the exertion, and inched his gaze slightly further to the right. He saw a still hand, the plastic mound of an oxygen mask, an array of hospital equipment.

Carrie improvised.  
"It's alright. He's going to be ok. They put you both into controlled comas to give you some recovery time. They just woke you up first, that's all. They said he'll come through it fine, we just have to give it some time." She hoped her voice didn't betray her.  
"How do you know?" he asked, making no effort to hiding the mistrust in his voice.  
"Would I be this calm if I wasn't sure?" she reassured him. Lachie lay back again and closed his eyes.

 

\---

 

_The nerve of her, the_ fucking _nerve of her._

_Taylor just showed up here. Big entourage, big shades, the works. She wanted to see him. I told her what she could do with that._

_She thought I was the mousy type. I don't think she knew what hit her._

_She was hovering outside the room. The nurse summoned me out, and Taylor leaned in and hugged me. Funny, she didn't hug me when she was trying to prove she could still fuck my boyfriend. I asked her stonily, "Why are you here? What do you want?"_   
_She said something about how terrible it all was, what an ordeal, how awful, and how she'd come to see how he was - God, I'm so angry I can't even collect my thoughts. Let me calm down for a moment._

_She asked how he was. I didn't waste words; staring coldly at her, I just replied, "Comatose." She flinched._   
_"What happened in there?"_   
_"They shot his brother, and then they shot him."_   
_"I....... Do they think he'll be okay?" To be fair, she looked utterly floored. I couldn't summon any sympathy._   
_"There's a hole in his lung. I have no idea. Lachie's been better too. You got out okay though, yeah?"_   
_I knew it was unfair but I couldn't stop myself. The words tumbled out, spiked with leftover anger and hurt and hatred._   
_"How many minders did you have with you?" I stared her down._   
_"It was insane in there, everyone was trying to get out, we just started running," she stammered._   
_"How many?"_   
_It took her a shamefaced minute to answer. "Six."_   
_"Six. And you needed all of them to get you out? You couldn't have told any of them to help him, or Lachie?"_   
_"I -"_   
_"You liked him enough to hit on him in front of his girlfriend, but not enough to try and help him?"_   
_Her mouth dropped open. "I wasn't -"_   
_"You fucking WERE. You were. I was THERE. And now he's in there." I jabbed a finger savagely at her, and at the window of the private ward._   
_She was speechless. I was glad._   
_"You're not seeing him," I hissed through my teeth. "You don't get to show up days later making like you care. You leave us the fuck alone." I stared daggers at her, then turned and left her there, her petrified team all staring at the floor. A minute later, through the glass I saw her disappear down the corridor, minions following at a safe distance._

_Kristen and Lachie were both watching me with raised eyebrows as I returned._   
_"Pals, then?" said Lachie drily, closing his eyes wearily._


	18. Chapter 18

Carrie stayed by Tom's bedside. No-one could persuade her to go further than the bathroom across the hall. She knew things looked bad. He had been under for too long. She could feel him drifting further away from her. Her biggest fear was that he would slip away, and she wouldn't be there at the last moment. She needed to see it through, to be there for him and with him, to the end. She clung to the hope that somewhere in there he could still hear and feel her. If he thought she had left, given up on him... even if they were never to speak again, it mattered to her that at least he knew she was there, that she had not left him.

Kristen went back and forth from the hospital several times. Lachie was improving day by day, and Kristen brought him back books and her iPod to stop him climbing the walls and take his mind off how bleak things looked. After the first trip she made the journeys in a huge hoodie that hid her face. She reported that there were still journalists crawling around the entrance, news vans and hungry cameramen waiting for any news or celebrity appearances. Apparently Taylor had been mobbed as she left, but offered no comment to the press.

Kristen also brought Carrie a change of clothes, judging that not only did the spectacular, uncomfortable gown look rather rumpled and eye-catching in all the wrong ways after several days of wear, but that the house of McQueen might want their dress back at some point, although as yet they had been tactful enough not to ask. She guessed they were roughly the same size, although Carrie was a good three inches shorter than her. She brought her a pair of jeans, some flat sandals and a couple of black vest tops.

Carrie took the clothes gratefully.  
"Close your eyes," she ordered Lachie. Surprised and embarrassed, he exchanged looks with Kristen as Carrie began to peel off the heavy gown.  
"Why don't you use the bathroom?" he ventured, averting his eyes from the tiny, half-naked girl in front of him.  
"I'm not going anywhere," she shrugged, tugging on the jeans. "Kristen's alright... You just keep your eyes closed! I'm not leaving this room." Lachie's mouth twitched but he did as he was told.

 

\---

 

They offered Carrie a bed in one of the on-call rooms. She refused it. After four days sleeping in the rigid 1970s armchair at Tom's side, they brought her a reclining chair. For three more nights she slept badly, wading through the swampy, treacherous undergrowth of her nightmares.

She dreamed of forests, hands that reached at her from in the trees. Monsters with kill lists stalked her between the low-hanging branches, and ash floated down through the heights of the forest, settling hotly on her skin and hair. She dreamed of gunmen crouched behind boulders, and armed police that surrounded and watched her passively like spectators in an amphitheatre. Long, shapeless figures around her fled through the trees, occasionally crashing into her before stumbling onward.

She reached a clearing, and the moonlight above turned a sickly yellow shade. The clearing offered no hiding place, and the thundering rotors of a helicopter bore down upon her from above. She retreated back into the trees, jerking away from the branches that tried to curl around her wrists and elbows. The forest was oppressively, aggressively alive and intent upon swallowing her. The ends of the branches started to curl into her hair, tangling around a handful of it painfully. She felt terror rise up in her throat and struggled to free herself, but it only worsened the tangle. The branches were heavy and weighed upon her head as they knotted her hair around them. She felt herself pressed downward into the wet black earth, and fought desperately to regain her balance, clutching at anything she could to stay upright, panicking, crying out for help.

She awoke with an appalling shudder in near-blackness, her face pressed into something springy. The moonlight streamed in around her, and the weight still bore down on her head. Disoriented, she reached up, and her fingers locked around a hand buried in her hair. She scrabbled at it, and heard a low murmur from beside her as the fingers spread toward the back of her neck. Startled, not quite believing it, she wrenched herself free and upright, and leaned over the face beside her.

Tom's brow furrowed between his closed eyes as he twisted his head sleepily toward her. He murmured again wordlessly, the oxygen mask and breathing tube impeding his speech. Carrie put her hands on his face, choking on tears, and stroked her thumbs gently across his eyelids. Tom reached a hand up and closed it around one of her wrists, and his eyes slowly flickered open. He screwed up his face, opened his eyes again and focused on her with some difficulty. His eyes looked bluer than she had ever known them, and she watched him cycle through fear, confusion, recognition and relief. His grip on her wrist softened, and he smiled weakly, swallowing hard and closing his eyes again. Carrie sobbed, and buried her face in the unhurt side of his chest as, wincing, he slowly wrapped his arms around her.


	19. Chapter 19

**Six days on from the shocking Vanity Fair massacre, Hollywood is still coming to terms with the devastating violence of that night. The atmosphere in Beverly Hills remains subdued, and locals and stars alike have spoken of feeling numb, angry and heartbroken.**

**Condolences have been pouring in for those lost that night, and fans of those killed have left thousands of tributes to their heroes at the scene and on social media. A memorial service will be held next week for those killed in the attack.**

**Most of the survivors were venue staff and less well-known guests. The gunmen allowed them to go free, focusing on the more famous names on the guestlist.**

**Only four survivors were actually targets of the gunmen. British actor Tom Hiddleston, his theatre director twin brother Lachie Hiddleston, Twilight actress Kristen Stewart and Tesseract writer Carrie Stark were all rescued in a dramatic raid by LAPD officers. Anonymous sources say the Hiddleston brothers are both recovering from serious injuries, both having been wounded in the attacks, but doctors expect them both to make a full recovery.**

**Ms Stewart and Ms Stark, who is dating the Thor star, were both unharmed. Ms Stark has been at the actor's bedside since the attack, and it's believed Ms Stewart has kept a vigil at the hospital too for his brother. They and their families have asked for privacy at this time.**

**Police have named the killers as 29 year old Mark Nyberg and 34 year old Andrew Franklin, both from Sacramento. Both men were shot dead by police at the scene, and little is yet known about their backgrounds. They were known to the police, and we understand they have been investigated before for online harassment of a number of well-known figures, but there is no known history of violence in their records.**

**Police hope to uncover the full motive for this horrific crime in the coming days, as the entertainment community comes to terms with the trauma and takes its first steps back to normality. This is Kacey Stoneman, in Beverly Hills, for KTLA.**


	20. Chapter 20

_I can't sleep. I couldn't sleep last night either. I don't sleep much these days, since the party. When I sleep, the dreams and the memories take over, and it all replays again, so I try not to. Tom's asleep next to me, breathing quietly, and I ought really to go next door to write._

_After we came back from LA, I gave up the flat in Tower Hamlets. It didn't make sense to keep it anymore. He asked me to give it up, and I knew where I wanted to be. It's been a month and a half now. I wake up in this loft bedroom every day with sun coming through the skylight, and he's here._

_He hasn't been away for any filming yet. He's much better now but still has some recovering to do. He reads scripts, and I write, and he makes plans on the phone with his agent. We curl up and stretch out, and we tease each other, and he scoops me up and bundles me into bed, and we don't talk about what happened that night. It's the one thing we don't talk about. He'll get back out there when he's up to it. In the meantime, I feel safe here in London, with him._

_The night we got back was strange. He was still pretty unsteady on his feet, but when we got in the front door, he stopped dead in the hallway, unfolded my hands from around my bags so they fell to the floor, and he pushed me against the wall and kissed me. Hard, urgent, almost angry, his hands all over me, on my waist, my breasts, my face, in my hair. We made love on the floor right there among the weeks of unopened post and fast food flyers, our hands sweat-sticky on each other in the dust. Afterwards I led him through to the living room, and by the time we reached the sofa we had fallen into each other all over again. It took us an hour to reach his bedroom._

_The sex was the most intimate I've ever known it; searching, jealous, hungry, but protective too. We covered each other, hid each other's skin with our own bodies, surrounded each other; guarding each other from terror or intrusion. We both slept badly, and I know he had nightmares, but he wouldn't talk about it, just pulled me fiercely close to him as we drifted off again._

 

_\---_

 

_He just did that thing he does when something disturbs his sleep. He rolls his head slightly to one side and murmurs in his sleep, a sort of low, wordless "mmmnn." God, it kills me. It's so hard not to bury my face in his hair and kiss him awake. But I should turn the light down on this thing. He's still recovering. He needs to sleep._

_His recuperation has been slow. It was a bad injury, and it was a while before he could breathe without it hurting. He only took up running again a week ago - short local circuits, nothing ambitious yet. It was hard for him, being stuck in bed all that time. Sitting still doesn't come naturally to him. He let me look after him, and I loved doing it, but I can see he's frustrated and itching to get back out there._

_Lachie recovered much more quickly. A bullet to the head and he was up on his feet again in less than a fortnight! He must be charmed. They said the scars on his temples will fade, but I actually think he's quite enjoying sporting his war wounds. He's had plenty of female attention since it happened, which he's taken full advantage of - he's out with a different girl every night. He and Kristen fizzled out pretty quickly. They were an item for a couple of weeks but it just didn't seem to work. Maybe there was too much trauma attached to how they got together. Maybe they realised they just weren't that into each other after all. They're still close friends. I think they'll always be friends._

_He just stirred again. I should go next door. He doesn't have to be up at any particular time tomorrow but I don't want to wake him. He looks so perfect like this. His hair, longer now than usual, is rumpled, and his face is calm except for that little frowning furrow between his brows he always has when he sleeps. He has two days' worth of stubble along his jaw and every now and then his eyelids flicker. I wonder what he's dreaming about in there. I want to kiss him, but I don't want to wake him. The wound on his chest is just a scar now. It'll fade and just become an ambiguous little circle, only I'll look at it and always know what he did for me._

_He's beautiful. He's alive. He's mine._

_I'm staying right here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've nearly finished the sequel to this. There's been some strange things happening and life has got in the way. But it's nearly done and I'll post it soon :-)


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